


Typhoon generation.

by Kaesteranya



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesteranya/pseuds/Kaesteranya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How to mend what's broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Typhoon generation.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the word prompt “hush” over at the KHR Fic Meme; the title is taken from the 31 Days theme for October 13, 2007.

It comes with the strange predictability of the tides: in and out, backwards and forwards, washing the dregs up, dragging the good things under. It hits Hibari Kyouya when he least expects it, because he refuses to believe that it’s tearing him apart. Chrome Dokuro is, however, well-versed now in watching for storms. She reads the signals, and is always ready to catch him.

 

There is a storm now, both literal and figurative, up in the skies and within Hibari’s head. She is taking refuge under the feeble shade of a bus stop, hand clutching the handle of her umbrella, squinting out into the curtains of rain ripping through the premature darkness of the afternoon, watching Hibari stumble through them, head low, one foot in front of the other. _His eyes are dead_ : it’s the first thing she notices the moment he’s close enough. They have been dead since Dino Cavallone broke his heart with two words and a beautiful smile.

 

Five years later and Chrome is still picking up the pieces, and pulling the splinters out of Hibari’s hands.

 

She meets him midway, drags him inside the tiny corner of peace she’s made out of a lighted bus stop and the warmth of her arms. He’s been chilled to the bone and maybe a little beyond that, in a place she’s never going to be able to reach no matter how much she offers herself up to him, in dark and quiet places, on her bed and sometimes on his.

 

His eyes are dead, and his lips quiver on the brink of speaking, saying something. She puts one finger over them, kisses his cheek, smiles again. She sits him down on the bench, pulls a towel out of thin air to pad him down just enough to ward off anything but the common cold and maybe a fever. He doesn’t say a word. Her gestures tell him that everything will be all right.

 

(They both know that she is lying.)


End file.
